I am an Atheist in a Foxhole 4/4

This is the last post, in my four-part series countering the false thought that humanity cries out for God in moments of need and death. Here are part’s one, two, and three.

The day was March 16, 2011. The Arab Spring was in full force. Already, regimes had toppled in Tunisia and Egypt, with protests in full swing in Libya, Syria, Iraq, Jordan, and in Bahrain where I happened to live and work.

In Bahrain, the protests had been going on for six weeks, prior to this day. My friend and roommate, woke me up at the crack of dawn, about 0630am.
“They are about to start the assault…” He said to me, followed by an awkward pause as my senses were still half-asleep.
“Alright, I’ll see you on the top floor” I replied, as he went up to the forty-forth floor, while I got changed and followed him up.

Assault on Pearl roundabout

We lived one block away from the Pearl roundabout, the focus of the anti-government protests, and as I peered out the forty-forth floor window, I could see dozens of Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs), tanks, and thousands of troops amassing on the left-hand side of our viewpoint. Then all hell broke loose. Gunfire, tire burnings, helicopters, the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire, molotov cocktails, even a few car bombs; people running and falling, only to be followed by an advancing army armed to the teeth. Not a pretty sight at all.

Once everything was wrapped up and the government forces had shot, arrested or scared everyone away, a curfew was declared in the entire region. My friend and I did a horrible job preparing for such an eventuality, as all we had in the house was protein shakes and water (We ate out everyday near the American base for 6 weeks for when the shit hit the fan, so groceries wasn’t high on our priority list). But we had to make it to the suburb next to the American base again this morning, in this case, after the shit hit the fan.We already had emergency go bags packed. We grabbed them, our passports and went downstairs to the car. But before we got into the car, we walked outside the building (with our passports in our hands) towards the nearest police patrol, who were scattered every few hundred metres. As we approached, we told them we were Australian and American, and we need to get to Juffair (next to the American base), while we flashed our passports. “No broblem, no broplem. Go” they said in the arabic english (Arabic has no sound for P.)

We got into the car, and drove off. We took a right at the round-about a few hundred meters in front of our place, and before we knew it, there was five soldiers running at us. So we stopped the car, wound down the windows, and told them the same story we just told the earlier group of police. Except this lot of soldiers wasn’t as friendly (friendly being a comparative term here, as all the soldiers were shooting at innocent protestors not one hour earlier, who were simply demanding what their King had already promised them).

Upon completing the need of our trip, the soldier looked at the road ahead, looked back at us, and said “Good luck…” in a very sarcastic, ominous tone that gave us the goose bumps, but go ahead we had too, so we did.

For reasons I will never know, I put my passport in my pocket, as I hit the gas and drove off. Not 400 meters away, out of nowhere, eight soldiers start running at our car pointing shotguns, and screaming at us to stop. I froze for a second (though the car didn’t.) Luckily, my friend snapped me out of it with a quick smack across my chest, and I slammed on the brakes. If I hesitated for a second more, that may have been our last drive. Sitting in the parked car, we now noticed the two APCs behind the eight soldiers; one manned with a fully automatic machine gun which you would expect to see in a Rambo movie, while the other had a grenade launcher, and both manned with soldiers.

We know enough at this point to slowly step out of the car. My buddy, who had the good sense to not pocket his passport (though he looked like an all-american American so the passport was more of a formality for him) was holding it up so there was no doubt. I, however, am an arab, and without my passport in hand (nor could I reach for it without risk being shot) looked like the protesters they had spent their morning shooting. As the soldiers approached, they kept their guns trained on me, the big threat that I was, with my purple shirt, and grey shorts.

Having almost being shot at for not stopping the car quickly enough was not the end of my trials and tribulations. A strangler soldier showed up, barged past the others with his baton, and lifted it above his head, ready to strike me down. I didn’t have to freeze, I was already frozen. Nothing I could do. If I dodged it, one of the others soldiers, the ones with shotguns would pop me; stuck between a rock and a hard place as they say.

“Where are you from???” his commanding officer interjected at the last second.
“…Australia…” I responded.
“Ohh… We thought you shia brotestor… Go back…” he said, as his baton-happy soldier lowered his weapon, unhappily it seemed.

I glanced over to my right, and saw a “shia brotestor” laying on the ground with a hood over his face as he was being zip-cuffed by a soldier, then picked up and thrown into a car, and driven away. My buddy and I were allowed back into the car, and had to go home. We eventually made it out, the same way we tried the first time, though several hours later, as a friend of ours who had an uncle in the police force called us, saying if we take that same route again, everything would be clear. We took our chance and made it out, luckily.

In hindsight, and unbelievably, I am grateful for these Near-Death experiences. Not many people know how they will react in the face of death, and it may leave them with an uncertainty about how they will face the inevitable. I do know that I will face it with at least some dignity. I don’t want my last act on this pale blue dot to be of pissing my pants or begging. Not that it matters, because I’ll be dead after, but it matters while I am on this side of the great divide.

And that wraps up the somewhat self-centered, four-post series of being an atheist in a foxhole. Thank you for reading.

In other news, I just launched my author website, and I am giving away free copies of my upcoming book, Random Rationality: A Rational Guide to an Irrational World, to the first one-hundred people who sign up for the email newsletter on the home page. The book will be released July 31st, 2012, so make sure you are part of that first one-hundred!

I am an Atheist in a Fox Hole 3/4

This is the third of my four-part series on being an Atheist in a Foxhole, to counter the naive thought that at the moment of death, Man always cries out for a higher power, based my own experiences. Here is the 3rd part of that series, which is much longer than the first two.

The day, was March 27, 2008. The US military had just begun an offensive in Sadr City a few days earlier. The Green Zone, where I lived, had the unfortunate luck of being situated right across the river from Sadr City, and the militants who couldn’t take on the US Army in a front on fight, decided to put pressure, or just take revenge by shelling the Green Zone every 30mins with anywhere between 1-8 mortars / rockets round the clock, where the politicians, generals, officers and unfortunately I lived. Without going into the ethics, and morality of people fighting for their own country against what could easily be called an ‘occupying’ force. This is what happened that day.

Before we get started, it is necessary to explain one thing. We were lucky enough to have what is called as a C-RAM; Counter-Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar. It is a device that gave us occupants of the Green Zone, a 6 second warning of any rocket or mortar attacks in our 4 sq. mile ‘paradise’. Once you heard the siren, you ran to the nearest bunker, and if it was further than 6 seconds away, you hit the ground and curled up into a ball. Ok, now that is established, we can begin the story.

My three friends and I were scheduled to head out on vacation on the 4th day of this shelling (thank goodness, because the shelling would continue for another 7 weeks). Our friend drove us to the helipad, to take a Blackhawk helicopter to Camp Victory, which is situated right next to the airport. Half way to the helipad, the C-RAM went off for the first, and definitely not last time that day, and we screeched to a halt, and ran into a nearby bunker as an explosion occurred several hundred metres away, and there we waited for the all-clear siren.

A few minutes later, we were back in the car and on our way to the helipad. As we arrived, we got our gear out and walked into the helipad to put our names down for standby (waiting for empty seats on available helicopters). 3 of us immediately walked over to the Burger King in the small shopping centre on the other side of the street, while 1 remained behind to call us if the chopper arrived.

On my way to Burger King

All the while walking past damaged cars, with broken windshields due to the dozens of explosions and their shockwaves.

Blowed up car

We even walked past a damaged bunker, which most certainly housed a few people, whom surely became deaf as a result of the deafening reverberations of a direct hit.

There would have been people huddling inside this bunker

We had just managed to buy our burger king meals, which still amuses me to this day, after dozens of explosions, and where being caught out in the open could mean your death, we needed a small slice of comfort food. Upon walking out of the store, the C-RAM went off again. We made a b-line for the nearby bunker, and got stuck there with a small continent of cool as chips US Marines, on their way home from the recent offensive in Fallujah (I can’t imagine what they went through). What we were going through was a walk in the park for them. We were stuck in that bunker for what seemed like 30 mins with them, shooting the shit as they told us of their recent exploits, and struggles being in Fallujah, and in the Marines. Eventually the all-clear sounded and we walked out, only for the C-RAM to immediately go off again, so we scurried back in like panicked dogs! While the Marines simply walked back in.

This time, the bunker filled up with dozens of people, including one woman who worked for KBR, who had her radio turned on. During the ensuing minutes, rockets and mortars landed extremely close by, mainly targeting the nearby American Embassy. Over the radio, we hear a frantic voice screaming “A mortar hit the living quarters…. *pause*…. THERE’S SOMEONE BEING BURNT ALIVE”. Everyone was unnerved, but only the woman spoke. “I’m fucken leaving this country tonight!” she said in a shaky voice, on the verge of tears.

There was a man burning alive in that fire

More explosions ensued, and eventually, the all-clear rung out much to everyone’s relief. I, and I imagine many others, at this point, had forgotten about the burning man, and looked only to our own peace of mind. I was wilfully forgetting what had transpired until I was in a calmer environment. We made it back across the road, and reconnected with our 4th comrade. The events from leaving the helipad, to our return clocked in at 2 hours. We were given a brief respite, as we sat around a picnic table throwing a nerfball around, and taking some photos. Our respite was short-lived, and instead of sitting around an open picnic table, we decided to get situate ourselves in front of the helipad front desk, closer to the bunker, but unfortunately, right underneath the C-RAM speaker, of which there were only 2 in the entire Green Zone, which should give you an indication of how loud they were.

Unbeknownst to us, we still had hours to wait before any helicopters were even cleared to show up, due to the constant bombardment, and the helipad waiting list grew ever longer. All the while, every 15-30 minutes, the bloody C-RAM would sound, sending us scuttling for the bunker 30 yards away in a mad dash with 40 other people. Let me tell you something, when you are in a crowd of people scurrying to save your own life, dignity goes out the window, as does chivalry. If there was someone in front of you, slower than you, you ran around them, there was no such thing as waiting, or bravery. Your life was in your own hands, and if you thought God was protecting you, then you were a fool. (The thousands of Iraqi’s who were killed/maimed in the explosions I heard everyday, would attest to that, if they didn’t have the self-contrived ‘comfort’ of religion hammered into them distorting their viewpoint from when they were old enough to talk).

Over the course of the next several hours, we had to scurry into that bunker between 1 and 2 dozen times, while bombs rained down destruction all around. It all remains a blur, though very peaceful in-between the rains, as odd as that sounds. You very quickly adjust back to normal (comparatively) once the all-clear sounds. I imagine having friends to shoot the shit with, helped a tremendous amount.

Worst day of my life

Finally, at long last, after several hours of agonising waiting, the choppers arrived, a few minutes after the last all-clear, and we had to line up in the open to board. The anxiety once again, begins to set in. What if the C-RAM goes off? Do we run to the bunker, or brave the chance to get out of this hell hole, which for all we knew, may be the only chance we get. We all board quickly, and as we lift off, the C-RAM goes off again. All hold their breath. Luckily, our helicopters aren’t hit. We take off, and fly over the war zone that parts of Baghdad have degenerated into as a result of the offensive.

The helicopters we eventually took off in

That night, we slept in Camp Victory before our flight the next morning, and I could still hear the explosions bombarding the Green Zone, 40 km’s away, and the C-RAM siren played in my head the entire night. We were only half way through our trials and tribulations of getting out of the country, but the horrible half was over with, and the 2nd half has nothing to do with God so I shan’t go into it.

My friends and I, went through 8 hours of hell on Earth, and not once, at least in my case, did God enter into the picture. I was as Godless as ever, getting mortars and rockets lobbed at me by others whom did have God in their mind, encouraging them, and by God, I mean their Ego.

I am an atheist in a foxhole.

Fun After-Fact:

The iPhone alarm sound simply titled ‘Alarm’ still scares the bejesus out of me to this day because of that C-RAM. When I need to wake up really early, say for a flight at the crack of dawn, that’s the alarm I set as it literally scares me out of bed, and gets my adrenaline racing, which ensures I don’t need my morning coffee or tea, I’m wide-eyed, tired but ready to go.

I am an Atheist in a Fox Hole 1/4

There is this silly and ridiculous notion out there that religious folk propagate about their being no atheists in fox holes, and at the moment of death, everybody cries out for a higher power. A silly proposition, and one that attempts to paint atheism with the same brush of irrationality that religion reeks of. Now, at this juncture, I could go on and on about people I’ve never met, and only read about it, and list how they did not pray in what they thought were their last moments, or speculate on atheists who died on what their last words were, but I think it’s better to tell my own near death stories, 4 in total, and how at the moment of truth, I didn’t look to God or even think of him. Not that this will stop religious people using the term, as it makes them feel good, and enlightened.

Due to the length involved of these stories, this post will be divided in 4 parts, so if you don’t want to miss any of them, sign up for email updates right there on the right…

The Road to Baghdad

The year was 2003, I was 18 years old, newly graduated from High School, and missing my formal (Prom) no less. My dad had worked in Baghdad for 6 months, and we were going to visit him. We landed in Jordan after a torturous 14hr flight, and our dad met us there with 2 drivers. We begun the 2nd leg of our journey, a 10 hour drive east to Baghdad. For hours, everything went swimmingly, we were catching up, talking, laughing, listening to music, and occasionally napping. About halfway into the trip, when we were close to the city of Fallujah, which would go on to become the bastion of resistance, and driving along the highway at 100mph (160kmh), I noticed a dark blue BMW making a u-turn from the opposite side of the road. I thought not much of it, but a few minutes later, I noticed my parents started to act nervously as I turned to talk, but I did not yet casually connect the two events.

Both my father and mother repeatedly turned to look backward, and I was at a loss as to why. Then I saw that same BMW speeding up to us and pull up alongside us with a bearded Iraqi man brandishing an AK47 telling us to pull over, and then pulling ever closer to us, effectively closing us in and forcing us to a stop. My first reaction in seeing all this, was to take off my headphones from my newly purchased Discman (I had just upgraded from a Walkman), and put it in the glove compartment for fear of losing it; the stupidity of my youth! I did however have the foresight to roll down my window so the guy wouldn’t break it with the butt of his gun.

So, there we are, in the middle of the Iraqi desert, on a lonely stretch of highway, with myself sitting in the front passenger seat, my parent’s in the middle of the SUV, and my two younger brothers in the back. I watch in slow-motion as the 2 armed, overweight men got out of the BMW, one brandishing an AK47, and the other a 9mm pistol. AKMan comes to my window, and sticks the machine gun against my throat, and pushes it in a little, just to scare me that little extra bit, as if I wasn’t scared enough already. 9mm Man goes to my dad and sticks his gun into his stomach.

This may make you laugh. AKman starts shouting at me in arabic, “eteinie flousek” which translates to “Give me your money!”. With my poor arabic, I heard “shismek”, aka “What’s your name?”. There I am, hundreds of miles from any kind of help, with an AK47 in my throat, being robbed, by an angry arabman yelling at me for my money, and I respond with my name… Repeatedly… “Fourat JANABI, FOURAT JANABI…. FOURAT JANABI!!!”. I wasn’t shouting, but it was not normal speech neither. My dad intervenes here, and tells them I do not speak arabic, and my parents proceeded to give up all our belongings.

The fat bastards even asked my 8 and 15yr old’s brothers for their money, of which they had none. After they had collected everything, they back up, but not before AKman had the idea to check the glove compartment and take my damn discman!! I was heartbroken, and actually got really angry here. I know, stupid, I think I already mentioned how dumb I was, but that’s what put it over the top for me. They left, and that was that. My heartbeat returned to normal after 30-60 minutes, and the event became a memory.

No god, no praying, just a blind primal fear unrelated even to the notion of death which did not occur, and then a materialistic anger over my discman (God my stupidity, but at least I can laugh about it now).

The very next day, I met my auntie for the first time, and we heard that the same men had robbed someone else, though he made a move and they shot him in the hand, took his car and left him there in the desert. My auntie started to cry as if she had known us our whole lives, at the time I was perplexed, but it makes sense now.

This is bonus material. The next morning, when we had travelled to visit our family, my uncle’s heard that a dark blue BMW had surfaced not 15mins away, with three male passengers. “Shit” we thought, and they asked us to go ID them so they could get our stuff back. We drive over there, two of my uncles with AK47’s of their own. My brother and I are shitting ourselves in the back thinking to ourselves, what if a firefight breaks out? Neither of us spoke to each other. We arrived after what seemed an eternity, and lo and behold, a dark blue BMW is there, with three men standing nearby, though we couldn’t get a good look at them. We stopped the car, and my uncles got out, but told us they wouldn’t do anything until we were sure. They opened our windows, and just stood next to the car blending in. We eventually see them, luckily, it was not them, and we went home, both breathing many sighs of relief.

That happened 9 years ago, just 1 year into my Atheism, and just before the country, especially that region descended into horrible and brutal violence.

That’s when I knew I wasn’t bullshiting myself, I was an atheist in a foxhole.

That was my first near death experience, and actually the least craziest one too. The next one shook me to the core, so stay tuned and I’ll get it up in a few days.

A Letter to my Future Self

Dear Idiot,

I am writing this, in the off-chance I will need to read it 50-100 years from now on my death-bed (if death even still occurs) and I have somehow become religious, as many a person has claimed I will eventually be in my old age. As I’m sure you remember, your 27-year-old self is an atheist, and I write this in the hope that you are too.

People have a habit of finding ‘God’ later on in their lives, in a recently released survey of my time, here in 2012; the older one was, the more likely they were to believe in a religious interpretation of God. In a separate study, the belief in that silly theory ‘Intelligent Design’ was linked to one’s own mortality. Even those who did not initially believe in intelligent design, were more likely to accept it when reminded of their mortality, clear proof not in the validity of ‘Intelligent design’ of which it has none, nor in God but in the self-serving delusions our brains create for us. Then there is again a study that showed that those with religious views had more of a need for closure.

We are easily fooled Impressionists, with an illusion of separation between us and all else. It is this false dichotomy, this illness as referred too by many great minds, mine not included, that is the foundation of that religious meaning that feeds on our self-contrived feelings, convincing us we are special, have meaning and that we entered this world with a purpose, and will leave with the fulfilment of that purpose, but these are clearly distorted belief systems, abused, twisted and designed to exploit our evolutionary purpose of groupthink that a few exploit at the expense of the rest.

Morale of the story, once an atheist, always an atheist. Anything else you’re telling yourself is a self-derived delusion, maybe it’s helpful delusion as I’m sure it is for many people, but a delusion none the less, and we are all born atheists. For me at this age, I prefer to live by the creed of Carl Sagan, and I hope that has not changed.

“For me, it is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring.“

Carl Sagan

-A Younger Prettier You